


Tourniquet

by cartouche



Category: Blomsterfangen (1996), Hannibal (TV), Kavanagh QC
Genre: Drug Abuse, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Heavy Angst, M/M, Relapsing, Suspicions, happier ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 16:35:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10597932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartouche/pseuds/cartouche
Summary: His cold fingers fumble with the small plastic bag, pushing it hastily down into the grimy pocket of his jeans. It’s dark and late but that doesn’t matter. Max isn’t home, he knows it. Max will be out late as always, probably off fucking some other twink he’s found, more worthy of his attention than Mikey will ever be. Tears sting at his eyes like needles, burning hot and swept by the bitter wind down his cheeks.That was it. £100 gone. Just like that. Easy as anything.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haanigram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haanigram/gifts), [hannidoodles](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hannidoodles).



> for [hannidoodles](http://hannidoodles.tumblr.com/) & [haanigram](http://hannigram.com/)!!

His cold fingers fumble with the small plastic bag, pushing it hastily down into the grimy pocket of his jeans. It’s dark and late but that doesn’t matter. Max isn’t home, he knows it. Max will be out late as always, probably off fucking some other twink he’s found, more worthy of his attention than Mikey will ever be. Tears sting at his eyes like needles, burning hot and swept by the bitter wind down his cheeks. 

That was it. £100 gone. Just like that. Easy as anything. 

He stumbles away from the man nodding and grinning at him, wrapping his hands around his bare arms. Max says he’s too thin. He doesn’t give a shit what Max thinks. He wishes he’d at least thrown on a hoodie, something to fight against the chill of the night air. It’s not far to get back to their shitty flat.  _ Their _ flat. It doesn’t feel like a home anymore. It just feels numb, a flat, heavy weight that sinks down in Mikey’s stomach and wraps chokingly around his throat. His lungs draw in ragged breaths and the tears fall freely, dripping miserably down onto the thin fabric of his tshirt whipping in the wind. He lets his feet scuff along the pavement, flaps of rubber sole scraping and catching, and he can barely see, blurry vision obscured by the strands of hair that knot across his face. His hand is surprisingly steady when he reaches their door, dragging the metal of the key into the lock and twisting it firmly. He ignores the pounding music drifting down from the floor above, the drunk guy passed out in the stairwell, vomit leaking from the side of his mouth. The stench is awful, piss and sick and weed and grime, and he half retches as he hurries up the steps, anxiety crashing against the rush of longing, thrill, exhilaration. He can feel the packet scratch against his leg, innocuous white powder shifting like sea foam. He hasn’t touched it in so long, but already his heart is thudding, blood rushing woozily to his head. The edge of his vision sparks grey static, and now he’s shaking, fumbling desperately against the door to 6C, knees buckling unhelpfully. 

The door swings open too quick, and he lurches inside, twisting to push it shut. It responds with a hollow thud. 

‘Max?’ There’s no reply. He wasn’t exactly expecting one. Something shifts in the gloom, and Oscar appears, eyes glinting as Mikey gropes around for the light switch, flicking it on. A trembling hand twitches through his grey fur unsteadily, and he shuffles into the kitchen fingers working the heroin out of his pocket before tossing it on the table. Oscar jumps up, inquisitive, claws scratching at the warped wood as he sniffs at the ziplock seal. He digs out the last can of the cheap shit they put inside Oscar’s bowl, and opens it carefully, tin opener protesting rustily against the metal. He dumps some of it into the blue plastic container tucked into the corner, and it’s enough to distract the cat, who jumps down eagerly to lick at jelly chunks and suspicious meat. 

There’s something surreal and dreamlike about the flat, lit up by the weak light filtering in through the grimy windows and thin curtains, and the yellow glow spilling out of the kitchen, stretching and reaching across the floor. He moves out of subconscious habit into the bedroom, prying up the 3rd floor board from the radiator in a daze, the one that Max doesn’t know about. The one with the hidden cavity beneath it. A tobacco tin glints up at him, innocent, battered silver, and he retrieves it swiftly, cold fingers holding it tight and protective to his chest. He replaces the rotting wood and hurries back to the kitchen, placing it on the table. He stumbles over to a wonky drawer, pulling it open frantically, grabbing the first spoon he sees and throwing it next to the other items. They smile up at him, wily and tempting, a siren's call drawing him in. 

It was stupid to think he could ever be  _ clean _. Just some half baked lie he dreamt up when he thought he was happy and the world was a kinder place to live in. The tears are back, clouding his vision thickly, and he almost drops the tin when he picks it up, sliding shakily into a wobbly plastic chair. Short fingernails are dug under the aluminium ridge, and the hinges creak but he manages to pry it open, placing it back down reverently before he scrubs at his eyes harshly with the back of his hand. His bottom lip trembles traitorously and he curses into the quiet of the flat. Only Oscar responds, paws pattering over the dirty floor as he saunters out of the door. 

He’s going to throw it all away. A year and a half, and he’s going to throw it away. There’s no escape, no redemption, except for that moment the the plunger bottoms out and he feels his skin  _ light up _. He pretends he isn’t shaking as he pulls out the syringe with its wickedly sharp needle, the cotton pads, the bottle of alcohol, the strong cord of a shoelace, crusted with old blood. He’d told Max he’d gotten rid of all this, that he’d never touch it ever again. It shouldn’t exist. 

He winds the shoelace around his arm, watches thin green veins bulge to the surface, protesting, and scrabbles for his lighter, clicking at it until it flickers into life. The heroin sits grainly in the dip of the spoon, a white solid heap at the bottom of a clear pool of water. He’s crying again, although he’s not entire sure why, cheeks slick and salty. He doesn’t feel anything inside, just a peaceful kind of numb that pushes the world very far away. He watches the flame dance for a moment, twisting gold and blue that shifts and shimmers, radiating a dull heat against the tips of his fingers. It’s terribly easy, even after all this time. All he has to do is pick up the spoon and run the flame underneath it, watch everything dissolve together in a shimmering, sickening swirl. Maybe Max will find him here the next morning, slumped and cold, with no more troubles to weigh on his shoulders. Maybe no one will find him, not until they’re behind on the rent and Oscar has torn away his face in a desperate kind of starvation. 

All he has to do is pick up the spoon. 

The lock clicks firmly in the door and dirty light from the hallway spills begrudgingly into the apartment. It’s Max, too many plastic shopping bags tangled in his hands as he shoulders his way into the room. They’re dropped into a heavy pile as he kicks his shoes off, and Mikey is frozen, a deer in metaphorical headlights. The flame flickers and his fingers tingle numbly as the shoelace cuts into his elbow. Max looks up, face already wrinkling into that same kind smile, and then it drops. It doesn’t feel real as he watches Max rush towards him, almost like he’s glanced up at a television playing his life in slow motion. Those same warm, rough hands grab his wrists and tug the lighter away, carelessly untwisting the lace, before piercing eyes examine his arm. Mikey can count every wrinkle framing them. 

‘What did you do? Mikey,  _ what did you do _ ?’ It’s too harsh, and he flinches backwards, half falling out of the chair as he scrabbles away. He’s choking again, fear bubbling up, and it’s all he can do to shake his head, sobbing as he crouches in the corner by the fridge. 

‘Nothing,  _ nothing _ , I didn’t … I-I swear … Nothing, Max, please,  _ nothing _ .’ It’s hardly enough to quell the righteous fury that rises in the other man, hands that run harshly through his own dark hair, before he’s grabbing at the bag and the spoon, emptying them into the sink. The water crashes out of the tap and drowns out the stuttered whimpers crawling out from his lips. 

Just like that, £100 gone.

Max methodically destroys everything on the table, breaks it and burns it and bins it, erases every last lingering trace of what could have been. Mikey lets him, huddled in the corner with red eyes and shaking hands. It lasts forever and not long enough and then Max is pulling him up, walking him into the bedroom, letting him collapse onto the mattress and curl up, miserable. 

‘Why, monkey?’ 

‘P-Please, Max, I didn’t think … Please ... d-don’t be mad.’ He watches shoulders drop as a sigh heaves itself into the thick silence of the room. Next door the TV blares. Max turns, wilts onto the mattress next to him and pulls his thin, shaking frame into his arms, caging him in a protective shield of flesh and bone. His chin rubs stubbled against Mikey’s hair and he can feel his chest move, in and out, in and out, the same steady rhythm it’s always been. 

‘I’m not mad.’ Warm air spills over the back of his neck and he shivers. ‘I just need to understand. We made a promise,  _ min elskede _ . You promised me.’ 

The words catch sharply in the back of his throat, and he reaches subconsciously for the soft puppet he knows is tucked under the pillow, restless fingers fidgeting over its woven grey sides. He nods dumbly, sniffs, and swallows. 

‘I know … I know there’s someone else Max. I’m not stupid. You’re never home, you never talk to me, you never kiss me. Always too tired or too busy.’ The tears are back, spilling over his eyelashes childishly, and every word  _ hurts _ , stabbing at his frail heart. ‘And it’s ok. If it’d be easier for you to just go I won’t … hold it against …’ He trails off and Max’s arms tighten firmly around him, clumsy kiss pressed into his hair. 

‘There is no one else, Mikey.’ 

‘Really, you don’t need to lie, it’s o-’ Max twists him around, manoeuvering him until he can stare firmly into his eyes, fiercely loving. Those broad hands cup his face, thumbs swiping over his cheeks, and Max’s voice doesn’t waver when he responds. 

‘You’re the only one, Mikey. There is no one else.’ He feels himself tremble uncertainly as Max sighs, eyelids crashing together. ‘I’ve been working, every shift I can take. I want to get us a better life, I’m sick of eating plain pasta and living in the shit hole. I want to give you something better.’ The air in his lungs in  _ concrete _ and he can’t believe he was ever so stupid. 

‘Y-You were working?’ Max nods, and the traffic rumbles past outside and it’s been a year and a half. ‘Max, I … I’m so sorry.’ His body tries to cry again, but there are no tears left in him. God he’d fucked up. He’d  _ cracked _ , he was useless, unable to keep even a single promise. Max’s lips are chapped and gentle and he pushes his hand through Mikey’s hair softly, combing out tangles with careful fingers. 

‘Don’t. It’s fine. You’re still clean,  _ ja _ ? Then there is nothing to fret over.’ The words settle over him thinly, doing nothing to quell the churning in his stomach. Max’s heart beats in dull thuds next to his ear, and he can feel the veins in his arm swell, taunting. 

He wishes he could believe it. 


End file.
